


The Incurable Loneliness

by kattahj



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Drama, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-15
Updated: 2002-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattahj/pseuds/kattahj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desperation is an ugly thing. And two people without their boyfriends present... well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Incurable Loneliness

"I believe in the lust of the body and the incurable loneliness of the soul."

\- Hjalmar Söderberg 

 

I wish I could tell you why it happened. But I can't even tell you that it did happen. You're sitting in my living room now, enjoying the fire, and I can see that you don't have any idea what you have just told me. Maybe you notice that I've gone pensive, but there are only a few hours left to my transformation after all, and that always gets my mood down.

It would have been so much easier if there was something to blame. What's the point in having a wolf's mind if you can't even blame it when you make mistakes? But it was new moon, there's no getting past that, and at new moon I'm almost entirely human. It couldn't even have happened otherwise. The wolf knows his mate better than I do, he wouldn't have accepted any replacement.

I can't claim that I'm "just a man" either. If it's one thing my manhood has never craved from me, it's a young girl. I know most men are different than me that way. Even you have been known to want women. (And how I hated them!) Muggles have lots of words for my sort of oddities. Wizards have none. The laws concerning werewolves don't even count on the possibility that two men can mate.

What then? That it was her fault? That she tried to seduce me? There is a Muggle story about a man enchanted by a little girl. A nymphet, he called it. If I tried an explanation like that I know exactly what kind of stare you would give me. Nymphet? Seduction? Please.

She did try to seduce me, poor girl. Even if I had been "straight" as they call it, I would have handed her a soap and towel and told her to go wash her face. The fact that I could smell blood from her was only part of it. The truth of the matter is, she looked pretty awful that day on my doorstep. Too much lipstick, cried-out mascara, and an outfit that barely met between her neck and her waist. I almost didn't recognize her, until she opened her mouth.

"Ron *says* he is gay."

With that intonation, exactly. As if Ron could think of saying any sort of things and this had nothing to do with reality. Images of recollection flashed inside my head and I suddenly saw a younger face surrounded by curly hair that was now cut short and showing a lovely neck. Yes, I noticed that the neck was lovely. It just didn't get my pulse up.

Of course, I was recovering from my latest transformation and I doubt anything would have gotten my pulse up. Even you, naked and laughing, with those muscles on your stomach jumping under my tongue... do you know that you laugh far too seldom? We both do. We both have our reasons, I suppose, but it's a bloody shame. You used to laugh a lot before. I could never share those laughs as much as I wanted to. James was the one you would laugh with, while you gave me sad eyes and a tongue in my mouth. There were times when I hated him for that, for being your best friend when I was your mate. For being normal.

Was that why you thought I was the traitor? Because you could see the hatred I felt some times? But maybe there was no reason. I certainly couldn't pick the reason why I thought it of you, why I allowed myself to break our bond in grief. Overwhelming evidence isn't really a good excuse in cases like these.

Enough of that and back to what happened, Remus old boy. Of course, I'm not really old. Only compared to Hermione, "achtzen Jahr und zwei Minuten" -- and convinced she was a woman already. I let her in. What else was there to do? Even sick and tired, I felt some sort of responsibility for her. Even if she hadn't been Harry's friend and my former student, I still would have felt connected to her, because in some ways she's not unlike me. In other ways... I have lost my mate once and it almost killed me. Her, it just made furious. Sure, she had been crying, but that didn't take away the effect of a woman scorned.

"Seven years I've been waiting for him to become ready, and when I finally think something's about to happen he decides he's gay." She sat there ranting in my kitchen while I went through the cupboards trying to find something to feed her.

"Do you want a cup of tea?"

"Yes, please." She barely paused before she continued her rant. "I mean, how rotten is that? Seven years and he pulls a dirty trick like that!"

I heated the water and stirred in the tea, before putting two cups on the table and seating myself next to her. "It's hardly Ron's fault that he's gay."

"But he's *not* gay!" She sighed as if it was perfectly obvious. "I know Ron, and I know *exactly* how deep into a cleavage he can stare. Would he be doing that if he were gay?"

"Maybe," I said, remembering the endless times you have done the same. I missed you so much right then, missed how jealous I used to get when you hung with girls. For you it was a question of faithfulness, not of life. Even when I am around you could theoretically be sleeping with others, although I trust you not to. Maybe that's a mistake. I bet you trusted me as well.

She snorted at my attempts to calm her. "Oh, don't give me the Kinsey scale and all that. I know those things better than you do." She was obviously right, because I had never even heard of the Kinsey scale. I looked it up some time after she left and marveled at the things Muggles will chart. It's as if they thought there was some magic in statistics. "He tells me he can't be with me because he doesn't fancy women. I happen to know that he does. Which makes him a dirty, rotten liar."

She said those last words very slowly, almost enjoying them, and I couldn't really argue with her. Hermione was always very good with logical arguments. Even if Ron was confused out of his mind, and he probably was, he had handled this very poorly, and she had every right to be upset.

"So, why come here?" I asked, sipping my tea and wondering why the knowledge I could never have children used to upset me so much. Certainly never having a messed up teenager was a blessing if anything.

"Well, I was supposed to stay at the Weasleys. That's obviously out of the question now. And I can't go home. My parents..." She shook her head. "All they think about is teeth. Besides, I always liked you. Even when you were our teacher, I always felt that you understood me."

At that cue, she moved closer, and I got an insane impulse to laugh. Really, here I was, ready to vomit after an unusually tough round of wolfiness, longing for a big hairy chest to curl up against, and all I got was an awkward teenager trying to sit in my lap. I mildly pushed her aside. "I don't think so, Hermione."

"I'm ugly, aren't I," she replied. Trying to seduce a gay man, old enough to be her father, and that was the only reason she could think of why it didn't work? I wasn't about to tell her differently, even though she really had grown remarkably nice. The hair suited her a lot better than her previous style had, and there were shapes where they had been none before. All that was really wrong with her was her outfit -- and her gender.

"You know that's not it," I replied, being all wise adult. Can you tell me where all that came from? When did we grow up? I know I was never as reckless as you were, but I don't know when control turned into adulthood.

"So what is it then?"

By then, I actually did laugh, a little. I knew what she was getting at. If I told her I was gay she would burst into more tears, real or not, and if I didn't, I would have no choice but to proceed. It wasn't a bad plan, but I really had expected more from her.

"You know very well what it is." I clasped my hands and gave up any attempt to be sensible and understanding. This was a farce, and I knew that she knew it. "You came here, thinking that if you made your pass at the least likely person and succeeded, you could throw it in Ron's face at any suitable moment. Because you think he deserves it, and you could be right. Perhaps you even find me attractive, in a terribly grown-up sort of way. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm not Ron -- and you're certainly not Sirius, my dear."

She gave up the charade right then and leaned back in her chair. Her face showed the kind of interest I had only ever before seen her spending on intellectual problems. "So it is Sirius, then. I always thought so."

I rose from my chair, finishing the last sip of tea. "That is none of your business."

"Can I stay?" she asked, and the question was honest. She really didn't want to go back home.

"Of course. Go wash up and change clothes, I'll make a bed for you in the living room."

Furniture spells aren't usually on the top of my to-do list as you know. While I was getting finished she had already changed into pyjamas and stood in the doorway, watching me intensely. I stopped what I was doing and stared back, at which time she sat down and picked up a book about freemasonry. I had to grin.

"Don't feel the need to help me or anything."

"You're a grown man, you should know how to make a bed," she said gravely, and for a moment I could see her twenty years later, telling employees or children the same kind of things, while all the time keeping the smile well hidden behind her eyes. My body still ached for you, but my mind started to feel content in knowing that having Hermione in my house would be less of a strain than I had initially feared.

"Is it okay if I owl your parents?" She looked at me with a glance I couldn't interpret, and it occurred to me that her parents might have a thing or two to say about her staying in the same house as a werewolf. "Unless they would find it improper..."

"Oh, please," she said, waving that away. "It's just... what would you tell them?"

It comforted me that her hesitation was purely selfish, and I assured her with a light heart, "They won't have to know about you and Ron. I'll tell them something utterly vague and they can make what they want of it."

She smiled, and I wondered at which time she had grown into her teeth. "You're a sport."

Well, if her change in demeanour hadn't set me at ease, this certainly did. Nothing is as asexual as a sport. The rest of the evening we spent talking about Mozart. She was as fascinated by the wizard most loved by Muggles as I was, and by the time I left for bed, the pain and gloom from last night's transformation were both gone. And that was, more or less, the way of things for the next two weeks.

 

**********

 

It would have been different if you had been there. I know I can't blame you for having to run from time to time, keeping away from this place long enough to let suspicions sink. There is no way I can blame you for that. You're still a fugitive, and even if you weren't you're committing a crime just by being with me. I know the caution and the terrible times apart are necessary. But that doesn't change the fact that you weren't there. You weren't there when pain burned through my body and howls in my mind begged you to come. It's my own fault for mating with you in the first place. If I hadn't known your hands on my body and your mouth around my cock, those howls wouldn't have been there. I knew it, and I lived through it as I have so many times before.

You weren't there two weeks later, when I felt strong and happy, longing to do something fun and take advantage of the energy I knew would disappear again. I could have taken you on the floor right then, pushed you down and licked every inch on your back. That back may not be as hairless as you would want it, but it's just right for my tastes.

Now, what I had was an emotionally convalescent teenager who had almost, but not quite, decided to give up moping. If you woke me up in the middle of the night, I could still tell the basic magical uses of chocolate, but I never realized that healing a broken heart was among them. Hermione set me straight in that matter.

"Chocolate balls?" I said in disbelief.

"Cocoa, rolled oats, butter..." she started, counting the ingredients on her fingers.

"Put in a *bowl*?" I asked. "And mixed with your *hands*? That's just so..."

"Muggle?" she asked with a raised eyebrow, and I shrugged. It's funny, you're the most Muggle-oriented person I know, and I'm not far behind, but Hermione was it in a different way. She never tried to separate her two worlds. They were both part of her, and while mixing ingredients with your hands is indeed an unworthy pastime, it is, she taught me, the only real way of making chocolate balls.

"I'm not entirely sure it's beneficial for the Muggle world to keep the wizardry so separated from them," she argued when we were finished and started to eat the things. They were actually quite delicious, especially when enjoyed with a fiery discussion. "The Muggles are instinctively aware that something is going on, but they have no way of protecting themselves should they need to."

"On the other hand, many Muggles who have been told about wizardry have reacted to it much too badly," I replied. "And I would say our affiliates are sometimes worse than our persecutors. What of Elizabeth Bathory, who got her hands on some vague mentionings of a dark spell to eternal youth..."

"And murdered six hundred people," Hermione said. "The only reason she was ever discovered was because she *was* a Muggle. I think the mutual good of a joined society would..."

Her tone was so convincing I held my hands up in defeat. "I don't know about you, but I'm thirsty."

She quickly mumbled an aqua spell. "You're trying to weasel out of this."

"Yes I am," I admitted with ease. She frowned at me for a second and then started to laugh. When did she develop that sense of humour? It wasn't something I remembered from her school days, and I very much appreciated it. Back then I had respected her as a good student. Now she was becoming my friend. Is my friend still. So why was I the last to know?

 

**********

 

By the time we left each other's company, I was feeling euphoric. You're probably the only one who knows how excited I can get in between two unusually bad transformations. I've practiced control to perfection and pride myself in showing little more to the dull eye than slight mood changes. But falling asleep was hard, and so was I, when thunder woke me up. I longed desperately for your hands on me right then, but the one holding my cock was my own. Settling for the next best thing, I started to stroke myself, in my mind replacing my hands with yours. It was a lousy replacement, not to mention that I've never been too fond of hand jobs. You know me, when I get in the mood I want to shag something.

There were footsteps outside my door, stopping when they heard my muffled moan. I stopped as well. "Hermione?"

"I'm sorry," came the hesitating reply, but the footsteps didn't start again. I gave up what I was doing and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

"Come on in."

She went inside, watching me with a sort of horror-filled fascination. Considering she had tried to seduce me she must have realized intellectually that I was a sexual being, but she probably still had some of that "mum and dad are *doing* it" sensation. Not to mention me being what I am.

"Are you sure it's okay?" she asked. "Because I could..."

"No, it's fine, I wasn't sleeping," I said somewhat unnecessarily. She gave me a look inclined to remind me that she knew as much. "Is there something wrong?"

She gave a mutter that could have meant anything and sat down on the chair by my desk. I waited for more, knowing it had to come.

"I don't know what we'll be," she finally exclaimed. "I like Ron, I really do, but it's not like we can be friends. We haven't been for years. First I was a potential girlfriend, then I was girlfriend in fact, and if I'm not either, I'll have to be ex-girlfriend, and I don't particularly want that." She rested her chin in her hands and added, "Plus, I don't know how to be with someone else. And a girl has needs."

You'd laugh at me if you knew this, but that thought had never even occurred to me. I would have thought it perfectly normal if she had said she was madly in love with Ron and couldn't live without him, but this simple admittance that she would miss sex, and that this in her mind was synonymous to sex with Ron, completely threw me. Sure, I had spent thirteen years in and out of beds, yearning for my mate, but I was male and a werewolf, while she was a perfectly normal teenage witch who I couldn't picture in bed with anyone. My "she's *doing* it" emotion must have been as parental as hers had been childlike. Then it was over, and we were friends and equals once again, just knowing a little bit more about each other.

"I guess I'm not the only one feeling a bit frustrated," I said with half a smile.

"Why isn't he here?" she asked with genuine interest.

"It's dangerous. He's still a fugitive to some people... and then there are the laws on werewolves." I didn't have to specify. Knowing Hermione, she would be able to tell page and paragraph on each and every one of them.

"That's a good reason," she said thoughtfully, and then, "That sucks! Having a lover who leaves you for weeks in a row, and you can't even call him a bloody bastard for it."

Against my own will, I gave a bitter laugh. "Weeks? Try thirteen years." But then I cursed you, Sirius, I cursed you every day and night, sleeping in strange bedrooms to forget that you were my mate, forget the memory of a traitor's touch. I still haven't forgiven myself for that.

"What's the point in having someone if they're not there?" Hermione asked straight into the air, and only later turned to look at me. She was so furious and sad I patted the bed next to me.

"Come here."

She walked over and I wrapped my arm around her, trying to be comforting although I was still almost crazy with desire. Those far too smart eyes met mine, and after a moment of hesitation her hand moved to my crotch. I took a deep breath, not expecting that. Her hand flinched a little, but didn't move.

"I know it's not much of a substitute," she started.

"It's not a substitute at all," I said, giving up all caution to kiss her instead. We both knew what this was about, and since I had never had a temporary lover that had known me as well as Hermione did, I wasn't going to let the fact that she was the wrong gender get into the way. There was a novelty of it all that attracted me even though her body did not.

I can't say that either of us was the dominant, but Hermione was definitely more at ease, since she knew the male body better than I knew the female. There were times when I felt like the fumbling teenager to her experienced woman. Then again, all human bodies have *some* things in common.

It's strange, I can't be ashamed of what we did. Thinking about it now brings back the playful mood. I know I was cheating on you, but for once, my mind wasn't filled with you. It couldn't be, the presence of a female in my bed was too strong. There was no love, no lust, just a scratching of the itch between two friends. The awkward giggles didn't cease until we were almost done, and at the final moment I gave a deep sigh of relief that it was over. I hadn't shouted your name, because there had been no need of shouting at all. It was only vaguely more romantic than touching yourself.

That's no excuse. But how can I explain now, after all this time, that our mating doesn't make me *faithful*? It just drives me crazy when you're not around, desperate to try anything that would help. I will be yours for as long as we both live, and when you die, I will die too. Shagging is another matter entirely.

She left my bed within a few minutes after the completion, giving me a smile that was hard to read. "Good night."

"Good night," I said, watching her go back to her room. I was grateful she hadn't demanded to stay. We could hardly bring up a philosophical conversation right after sex, and sleeping next to each other would just have felt strange. This was the way it should be, going back to think of our respective boyfriends.

I can't tell you that. It's insane. Even I know it's insane.

 

**********

 

"Good morning," she said when I came out in the kitchen the next day. She had been making coffee, and the smell alone was strong enough to send a sensitive person through the roof. I was amazed she could sip it with such ease, apparently more interested in something outside the window.

"Is it?" I muttered, since it was still almost dark outside. I didn't know how to bring up the night before and so said the first thing that seemed safe. "What are you looking at, anyway?"

"The moon," she replied, and I froze, of course. She noticed as much and smiled. "It's new, and I just made a wish at it."

"A wish?" I asked, puzzled but relieved to have a topic of discussion.

"Muggle superstition," she explained. "You curtsy three times -- well, in you case maybe you should bow -- and make a wish."

A vague memory of an evening in London came back to me. I'd been sitting on a café, and they had played recorded music with a woman singing who for some reason was called Billy. She had wished on the moon as well. I looked outside and thought about doing it, if perhaps the moon was more benign when it was new. It was a joke, of course, but who says you can't give in to a joke once in a while? The bowing thing was too much for my dignity, though. "I think I'll pass."

She shrugged. "Suit yourself."

There was an extended silence during which I grew more and more uncomfortable. Hermione may be extremely intelligent for her age, but she was still a teenager, more noticeably so when she relaxed and talked of silly things. Hell, I could have been her father.

"I was in on it, you know. So you don't have to feel guilty for my sake."

Startled by her calm statement, I wondered just when she had picked up telepathy. "I'm sorry, I just... well, I feel rather like a child molester."

"I'm legal," she pointed out, and I winced. Now, I like her even more for forgetting what I am, but back then in was salt in an open wound. She was *not* legal. To me, there was no such thing as legal. She realized as much and seemed to wish she hadn't said anything.

"I'm so sorry... I forgot."

"That's okay." It wasn't really, but that's what you are supposed to say in such awkward situations. I wished I had made sure she understood the consequences of our actions, but then, we hadn't really brought the subject up at all until it was too late. If we had, I wouldn't have this conversation with you in my head right now. But I don't regret anything. Part of me wishes I did. "Did you forget yesterday as well?"

"Not really... But I can't say I was thinking, either." She looked troubled, but not primarily with her own security. I could see her going through the paragraphs in her head, calculating the risks for both of us. She frowned. "They're not actually going to execute you, are they?"

"I don't think so," I said with half a smile. "It's been twenty years since it ever went that far. But you do understand that you can't tell anyone?"

"Well, it would make a rather bad impression if I had that on my resumé," she said dryly, and I smiled again, relieved that we had come to an understanding. There was another silence before she went on: "So. We're not doing it again."

"Absolutely not," I agreed, and she looked a bit anxious for the next question:

"Do you want me to leave?"

I did consider it, primarily because I felt a bit embarrassed to have her around after what we had done. But kicking her out wouldn't change anything, and it was obvious she still needed the time out. And so I shook my head. Since I'm not really telling you this, I might as well admit that I enjoyed having her around and would have missed her if she had left.

Watching you now, I wonder what you would do if you ever found out I had been cheating on you. Would you get jealous, or just sad? I don't think I could stand it if you got sad. Life has been bad enough for you as it is.

Oh, that's rich. I shouldn't tell my boyfriend that I'm an unfaithful sod, because that might depress him. Noble me.

She seemed happy to be allowed to stay, though. Poor girl. I never met her parents, but I think they're decent people, and I know the Weasleys are, but sometimes decent just doesn't do it for the young ones. Not even if they're normal, I guess. So I was rather pleased to see the broad smile spreading over her face as she left her chair to get dressed. I took a deep gulp of the coffee and watched her grin even more as I almost choked on it.

"What on earth *is* this thing?"

"The Muggles call it Espresso," she replied. "Personally, I like it even better when made with a wand."

Which did prove to me that there were downsides to having a young woman in my house even when we had decided not to sleep with each other again. I laughed at that and pushed away the coffee mug so I wouldn't accidentally drink from it again. The sky was slowly turning lighter, but the moon was still up. Since Hermione had left the room by now, I gave in to the temptation. Yes, already, I bowed to the moon and made a wish, childish as it may be. In my experience, most wishes come true, one way or another. For many years I wished for you, for none of the bad things to have happened at all. That came as true as it possibly could. And, dear Lord, it looks like this one is coming true as well. Just not the way I would have expected it. Nothing ever is.

 

**********

 

She couldn't stay for much longer, of course. By the time of my next transformation, you still hadn't showed up and I needed the company, but I also realized I couldn't expose a young girl to that. I do have some sense of ethics, even if it's hard to believe.

She must have realized it was coming. I was the one having trouble coping with it. It took me twenty minutes before I had gotten far enough into my incoherent explanation for her to understand I wanted her to leave, and this is Hermione Granger we're talking about. She's the closest to a genius I have ever met in real life. Once she put my mumbled two and twos together, she just nodded and picked up her bag, which was already packed.

"Are you sure you're going to be alright, now?" she asked, as if she was forty years old and I was a child with a fever. And just as genuinely concerned, too. It was funny, in a way, since I have been living through this for almost thirtyfive years, and almost always on my own. Which isn't any nag at you, at all. But in another way it wasn't funny, it was comforting, and I knew I was going to miss her. I still miss her. You're my mate and I love you with body, soul and spirit, but sometimes I just want a friend. Hermione was a friend, and if I hadn't slept with her she could be a friend even in your presence. But now it's just too complicated.

"I'll be fine," I answered. "And I hope you will be too?" I raised my eyebrows.

She waved that away. "Oh, you mean because of Ron and all that? Don't worry about it. Whatever works for him, works for me. I mean, I like him... I may even love him," she admitted with a thoughtful frown, "but it's not like I need him. I've been without him this past month, and it's been fun. Hasn't it?"

"Yes," I agreed, and envied her so much right then. For being able to move on, to once again have fantasies that aren't connected to one single face, forever. Love is an awful thing when it never fades and turns into normality. "Owl me some time, will you?"

"I will," she said, kissed me quickly on the cheek and was gone. I haven't talked to her since. But we do owl each other. Have you ever wondered about that, those owls that come sometimes with messages I won't share with you? Part of me thinks if you did, you would confront me about it, but I know I'd never do it myself, if the roles were reversed.

I remember thinking that she was a lot more beautiful leaving than coming, and that she even smelled better. Lord I am a fool, for never making a connection. When I'm close to a transformation and feeling ill, the wolf recognizes every trace of blood, and it nauseates my human part. I smelled it on her on that first day, but not on the last. It doesn't have to mean anything. Still, it was six months ago.

 

**********

 

When I can't come with you to see Harry, I always enjoy hearing you talk about him. In fact, I like it more than actually going there, because you light up when you mention him. You get an adorable look on your face that just makes me want to take you right there, on the floor or in an armchair, biting you to keep you still. You always laugh at the biting part, but it's serious to me. I think you know that. And so you sit here tonight like so many times before, telling of Harry's plans for the future, and what he had been doing lately, as well as news about other people you know I want to hear about. And then, without even noticing it, you utter the words that work as a Petrificus spell on me.

"Hermione Granger is six months pregnant."

It could be anyone's, of course. It could be Ron's. But although you probably don't mean six months to the day, chances are that she became pregnant around the time she spent with me. Two weeks after her arrival, we slept together. And the morning after I made that wish. Why did I make the wish? I knew it mustn't come true. Wishes are dangerous.

Once again I feel like I'm betraying you, for never telling you I wanted children. What was the point? We're both men, for one thing, and although taking care of another person's child would solve both that and the werewolf problem, the Ministry would never let me. I'm a safety hazard. And of course I must never ever have a child of my own. It could inherit the lycanthropy, or something even worse.

I do hope Hermione keeps her mouth shut. I don't want my child to be put down. Paragraph 46, section C; she probably knows it by heart. I know I do.

**********

 

THE END

 

**********


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